What Happens to Goodbye(37)

Now though, apparently, she was ready to talk. Or fight. Or something. So I clicked the little bouncing bubble, and my screen opened up to show . . . Peter. To say I was surprised was a serious understatement.
“Mclean?” He had to be in his office: there was a big Defriese logo on the wall, a wood console visible behind him, lined with framed pictures of very tall people, him looking short beside them in comparison. “Can you see me okay?”
“Um,” I said, suddenly feeling nervous. For all his impact on my life, I didn’t know my stepfather that well. We were far from chat-buddy status. “Yeah. Hi.”
“Hi.” He cleared his throat, leaning in a bit closer. “Sorry if I surprised you. I didn’t have your number, but found this contact info on your mom’s laptop. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Okay,” I said.
I was used to seeing Peter from a distance—across a table, down a hallway, on the TV. Up close, he looked older, and kind of tired. He had on a dress shirt, the collar loosened, and no tie. A diet soda can sat by his elbow. “Look, I know you and your mother haven’t been getting along that well lately, and I’m not trying to get in the middle of anything. But . . .”
There was always a but. Whether you were family, or faux family. Always.
“. . . I really care about your mother, and she really cares about you. She’s very sad right now and I want to make her happy. I’m asking for a little help in accomplishing that.”
I swallowed, then felt self-conscious when I realized he could actually see I was nervous. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”
“Well, I’ll tell you.” He leaned back a bit. “We’ve got a game down there this weekend, playing the U. Katherine and the twins are coming down with me, and I know she’d really like to see you.”
It was always jarring when he called her by her full name. Until they’d married, she was Katie Sweet. Now she was Katherine Hamilton. They sounded like totally different people, not that I was anyone to talk.
“She was planning on inviting you earlier this week,” he was saying now, “but then, apparently, you all had some differences. Or something.”
I nodded. Or something. “I thought she was too upset to talk to me.”
“She’s hurt, Mclean,” he replied. “I’m not asking you to come here, or even go to the beach. That’s between you and her. But I am hoping you’ll consider letting us meet you halfway.”
He made it sound so reasonable, I knew to refuse would make me look like a brat. “Does she know you’re calling me?” I asked.
“This is all my idea,” he replied. “Which means that if you agree, I plan to take full credit.”
It took me a minute to realize he was being funny. Huh. So Peter Hamilton had a sense of humor. Who knew? “She might not want to see me, you know. It sounded like she was pretty mad.”
“She wants to see you,” he assured me. “Just show up at Will Call at one on Saturday. I’ll handle the details. All right?”
“Okay.”
“Thanks, Mclean. I owe you one.”
That was an understatement. But I bit s back, instead just nodding as he said he’d see me that weekend. We both reached forward to end the call at the same time, and, noticing the other, both paused, not wanting to be first. Finally, after an awkward beat, I took the initiative and clicked the HANG UP button. Just like that, poof, he was gone from the screen. Goodbye.

A half hour later, I remembered the next day was garbage pickup, so I shrugged on my jacket and headed out to roll the can down to the curb. I had just turned to go back up the driveway when I saw Riley’s car still parked just down from my house. Her lights were off, and I could see her behind the wheel, wiping at her face with a tissue. I walked a little closer, and moment later, she looked over and saw me.
“I’m not stalking you, I promise,” she said through her open window. Then she looked down at the tissue, folding it carefully. “I just . . . wasn’t ready to go home yet.”
“I know the feeling,” I said. “You okay?”
She nodded. “Just the typical dirtbag drama. It’s so embarrassing. I am not flaky like this about anything else in my life, I swear. . . .” She stopped, then cleared her throat. “I’m fine.”
On the main road, past the stop sign ahead, a bus passed by, engine chugging. I turned to go back to my house, figuring we didn’t really know each other well enough for me to offer any more than I already had.
“He likes you, you know,” she called out to me suddenly.
I stopped, looked back at her. “What?”
“Dave.” She cleared her throat. “He likes you. He won’t admit it to me yet, but he does.”
“He doesn’t even know me,” I said.
“Are you saying he wouldn’t like you if he did? ” She raised her eyebrows. “Answer carefully. This is my best friend we’re talking about here, and he’s a really nice guy.”
“I’m not saying anything,” I told her. She was still looking at me, so I added, “I’m not sure he’s my type.”
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “You’re a dirtbag girl, too?”
“Not exactly. I’m more . . .” I trailed off, for some weird reason thinking of Peter’s face, blinking off my computer screen. “A girl who’s not looking for anything right now. Even with a really nice guy.”
She put her hands on the wheel, stretching back, and as she did I saw that circle tattoo on her wrist again, identical to Dave’s. There had to be quite the story there, not that I was going to ask about it now. “I get it. And I appreciate you being honest, at any rate.”